Alfons
by BandGeek99
Summary: A poem in which he is gone, but not forgotten. "Alfons Heiderich, though few remain who knew him, is no longer alone, is no longer fogotten." Rated for character death. Reviews appreciated.


Alfons - by BandGeek99

_Wow. Its been forever since I wrote a poem. Or any decent angst. So this is a surprise. It came to me around quarter of eleven last night when I was trying to fall asleep. I wrote this instead of getting some much needed rest. (This means you should feel privileged!)_

_I don't own, you don't sue. Thanks a lot, dears._

_Critique is muchly appreciated. This is free-verse, no real rhyme scheme or structure._

_Yes, Edward has a granddaughter. Her name is Maria and she, too, is German. She is the only one in her family who believes her grandfather's stories about Amestris and her grandmother, Winry, who passed away fairly young._

_Enjoy._

_

* * *

_

Blue eyes, light extinguished.  
That he would fall so fast, so sudden, so young, so alone.  
No family to speak of, his rockets his only companions.

The spark in his heart that once held life...  
Well, blood can put out a flame awfully quickly.

There's nothing left for him, it seems  
Aside from the blast of engines and a woman's screams.

He lays alone, forgotten in moments.  
His assailant is long gone, doesn't think twice  
Not about taking a seventeen-year-old's life.  
His face is frozen in a smile forever, his eyes glassy.  
He's still, as though he were merely sleeping.  
Blond hair flutters around his pallid face  
Obscuring a pair of pale blue irises, ever unseeing.

There's no bringing him back, the mere thought is taboo.  
He's left for good now.

_No one can salvage him._

He was going soon anyway, they all say.  
If the gun didn't kill him, the coughing would.

_It's consumption._

_It never leaves._

He was as good as dead from the day he caught it.  
That's what they say, anyhow.

Maybe ninety years later, we'll see a stone  
With a name and the date he was born and a year.  
The year when he was finally gone.  
Nineteen twenty-three.

And maybe we'll not glance at it again.  
And pass by it.  
_After all, he's dead._

Or maybe we'll crouch and examine  
And contemplate why and how.  
He was so young, we might muse.

The photo left behind is old and battered.  
_He his handsome_, a girl murmurs with a smile.  
His face is young and innocent.  
_He was brave_, a young man concludes, seeing the date in the stone.  
His life is a thrilling story.  
_He was a hero_, an old woman remembers, her eyes teary.  
His eyes, so blue, so beautiful, they once glittered so brightly.  
_He was a traitor,_ another man decides.  
His research was used for unspeakable deeds.

But when these folks have all left the grounds  
There is one girl left, eyes gold, hair brown.  
She kisses her fingers and places them to the dirt  
Where she knows that he lies undisturbed, safe and sound.

_Hello, sir, _she says with a smile. _I'm Maria Elric._  
She picks up the photo. _I'm seventeen, too._  
She closes her eyes, drops a lily on the hallowed earth.  
_You saved my grandfather's life,_ she says reverently. _So I thank you for that._  
_Pa always said you were a hero. Now I know it to be true._  
And she could swear she heard the wind whisper _Thank you._

_I never got to know you, sir, and I'm sorry for that._  
She chuckles quietly. _But I'm sure I would have liked you._  
_From the photo,_ she says, picking it up, _I can tell you were a lovely person._  
_You have beautiful eyes, you know._

She chatters on to the marble about nothing significant  
Then gently kisses the tombstone and stands.  
_Thank you, sir,_ she says again. _It was good to meet you._  
_Next time I come to visit, my grandpa will come too._  
She sighs. _The doctors are saying now_  
_That there's not much they can do._  
Her smile returns. _But don't you fret, Herr Heiderich._  
_I'll come back to visit._  
_It must get lonely sometimes, doesn't it?  
Don't worry.  
I'll be here.  
_  
And with one final wave, Miss Elric says goodbye  
And walks out of the graveyard, her face held to the sky.  
And somewhere in the heavens, a pair of blue eyes  
Belonging to the boyish face of a blond angel  
Smiles down on the graveyard below.  
_Thank you._

And Alfons Heiderich, though few remain who knew him  
Is no longer alone  
Is no longer fogotten.

_RIP Alfons Heiderich  
b. 22 March 1907  
__d. 8 November 1923_


End file.
